Crocea Mors
by Lamina Ashen
Summary: Born inside a raging fire, and cast upon a sea of madness and violence, Crocea Mors had been left to gather dust inside an old cellar. But however, it was far more than just a simple sword and shield. Finally, after so many years, it had been picked up again by one Jaune Arc. The question now remains, just what will Jaune Arc do, with a living blade by his side.


**Crocea Mors**

 **Chapter One: The Forgotten Blade**

 _It_ had been born in fire...That much it could remember.

In a forge, in times of great need, to fight a seemingly never-ending war.

And now, _It_ yet again gathered dust, inside the old cellar, waiting to be yet again called into battle.

 _It_ knew all of it's wielders, _It_ could remember them. And _It_ would always tell _itself_ of the stories that _It_ shared with them, so _I_ _t_ would never forget anything of what had happened.

How had it came to be, again?

Oh...Yes!

 _It_ had been born in the fire of the forge.

A peasant had ordered a sword and a shield, from a blacksmith in his village. A war was starting, and he needed a weapon to fight for his kingdom, for Vale.

The blacksmith was heavily burdened by a recent slew of commands, but he knew the peasant all too well. They were old friends.

And so, the blacksmith promised, that no matter what, he would forge the blade and give it to his friend in exactly one week.

The blacksmith made such a promise because he knew many things.

But most importantly of all, he knew that a war was approaching, and that the number of commands that all forges had will increase, which in turn will make the quality of all weapons lower.

And he wouldn't allow anything but the best for his old friend.

And so, he started forging.

And on the night of the sixth day, he finished all the weapons that he had been tasked to make.

The blade needed to be done tommorow, and as the clock neared midnight, and the blacksmith understood that he had no more time left, he made a decision.

He had heated the metal, and started, as the clock striked midnight.

The hammer rose and fell like thunder itself, the strikes booming inside the forge, lighting it fully.

It wouldn't be enough, all of the effort wouldn't be enough.

The blacksmith remembered the promise he had made, and so, he made one final decision.

A bright light had covered the hammer.

The man's very essence, his soul.

He had broken it, ripped it and pulled out all of the scraps he could manage, and sent them to his hammer.

And then, he imparted, through each of his strikes, all of the fragments.

It was then that _I_ _t_ was born. In a raging fire, under the heavy striked of the hammer, as life flowed into _It_ , and the blacksmith's perished.

Morning had come, and _It_ was finished.

Finally, he gripped _It's_ handle, and called for his pupil to deliver _It_.

The boy had burst into the room, took _it_ and left to deliver _It_.

And as the door close, the man fell to the ground.

He closed his eyes, and died with no soul.

 _It_ had felt it, _It_ was sure of it!

...

Where was _It_ again?

Indeed! _It_ remembered now.

The pupil had arrived to the house of the peasant, and the image he had found hat truly terrified him.

The peasant laid on the ground, bleeding and staining the floor red.

 _It_ didn't knew how _It_ saw back then, but now, _It_ did.

And then, the screams had started.

Mantle and Mistral had started an attack.

The boy had ran, he had ran as fast as he could, but no road was safe for him to take.

All he could do was to abandon his family, his master, his village, and run through the woods.

The heavy forest that surrounded the village was almost impossible to follow him through for a non-native. And so the boy had gotten away.

But fear still made his heart run wild.

And so he never stopped.

He kept running for hours on end, long even after they had stopped chasing him.

He only stopped, when he broke through the foilage, tumbling into the cold water of a lake.

The boy swam through the water, and reached the other side of the lake, before his whole body simply gave out. He wouldn't move, no matter how hard he wanted too.

Then, he saw his reflection in the water, and then, into the blade's reflection , and something deep inside the boy had awakened.

That had been the first time _It_ had seen _It's_ first wielder.

Dirty blonde hair, tall, and skinny. Piercing blue eyes, and a scared expression filled with cuts and bruises from the run. _It_ burned the visage of the boy into _It_ _'s_ memory, and right before _It_ , he had changed.

Nothing obvious, but _It_ could tell, whether it was how cold his eyes had become, or how firm his jaw was, _It_ couldn't tell exactly.

And so, their journey had started.

The man had travelled through the woods, this time slower, raising one of _It's_ half high, ready to strike at a moment's notice, and lowering _It's_ other half, ready to block, the man was prepared to fight at a moment's notice.

Stumbling through the woods, the earlier exhaustion had settled in, and the man took three more small steps, before crashing into the ground.

 _It_ couldn't see anymore. And it was then that _It_ understood, that _It_ could only see through his eyes.

 _It_ felt the touch of others, and it seemed like an eternity before _It_ could see again.

This time, it had been in the middle of the night. And _It_ could see nothing but a log.

Then, the man started something _It_ would remember.

He started training.

The movements were slow, clumsy, but they would get better.

This would continue, for a number of days. It was all _It_ would see for 14 nights.

Then _It's_ view had been re-given during the day. _It's_ wielder was talking to a woman with red hair. _It_ didn't know how it understood their language, but _It_ just did.

His wielder had been accepted to join the frontlines of the war, despite being 17 years old.

It was then that a wielder had started a journal, from which it understood everything it didn't see.

And from there on, everything had become a blur.

A chain of endless battles and violence.

Blood had been spilt, all in a sea of madness and despair brought by humans to humans.

 _It_ didn't understand why they fought one another, why they would call upon those dark creatures.

But it understood, that it would all come to an end eventually.

 _It's_ wielder became more skilled, better at everything, stronger, sturdier, every battle only served to make him stronger.

And then, when the war was starting to crash for their side, an ally had shown. Vacuo had raised arms and rallied against Mantle and Mistral.

They had finally received help.

And as the battles had continued, his wielder had become feared in the enemy's lines.

They had become a force to be reckoned, and _It_ had been given a name.

Crocea Mors.

Yellow Death, in an old vale dialect. _It_ thought it suited it.

Then she appeared.

A worthy foe, that grew like they did, every battle only serving to make her stronger.

They clashed, blow for blow, the battlefield becoming a distant view, as they could only see eachother.

It had continued that way, every time they meet on the battlefield.

And then, it happened one last time. A last battle between the two.

In the deserts of Vacuo, surrounded by a sandstorm, the enemy had been outmatched and outsmarted, but not outgunned.

Despite their disadvantages, it had been a fight for the ages.

And their side had won, but not with terrible costs.

And at the end, _It's_ wielder had found the other woman, as nothing more other than another body to the pile, slayed by the king of Vale.

After that battle, the view had been shut again.

More came after him, as _it_ was wielded for a shorter amount of time by each person.

And now, _It_ truly believed that the last time it had been wielded, had been, and will be, the last time.

Until he stumbled in.

For a second, _It_ thought that the boy who stumbled in was the same young Julius Arc that stumbled through the forest.

And then, _It_ had been picked up by him, in the middle of the night. The young man had been strapped in armor, and _It_ truly believed that a war was starting, for everything looked to _It_ exactly like how Julius had joined the war.

And upon witnessing an id card inside the man's pocket, _It_ had been left with a single thought.

Just who was Jaune Arc?

And an even more important question, that had left _It_ staggered, and without answer, as _I_ _t_ embarked on an unknown journey.

What will happen next?


End file.
